


Falling Into Steppe On The Shore

by WonderAss



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), The Dark Knight Rises
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Domestic, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Smut, Slice of Life, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-02-28 10:00:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18754150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderAss/pseuds/WonderAss
Summary: John Blake goes by Robin in Gotham. Bane is Behnam in Kazakhstan. After all they've been through, some of life's biggest challenges lie not in reforming a damaged village on the outskirts of a major city, nor training a new League Of Shadows...but day-to-day life. From reviving an old hobby to learning the basics of fatherhood, nothing great is accomplished in a day.For once, they've got time.A standalone slice-of-life series that also functions as a sequel to The Calm Beneath The Waves.





	1. Broad Strokes, Little Details

**Author's Note:**

> Just because Bane is _used_ to pain doesn't mean he has to live with it forever. Unfortunately, bad habits are just as hard to break as good ones.
> 
> Trigger warning for an explicit panic attack, discussions of chronic pain and explorations of trauma.

**Song Inspiration:** "Please" by Rhye

*

"I'm thinking about it."

God, he _hates_ that phrase.

Maybe it's childhood conditioning rearing its ugly head, but those four words were always the response people in his life had when they didn't want to commit to an answer. PR bullshit, just without any cameras rolling. He had to remind _himself_ back when he aged out not to pull that with his boys, as it was practically inviting them to rebel just for the sake of it. To 'think about it' was to dilly-dally until the problem was forgotten. Closer to 'put it off', as far as he was concerned. When it came to an issue like _this?_ Putting it off was actively making things worse.

Bane's back is a mess. It's _always_ been a mess. Back when he'd first seen it under his capture it'd been nothing less than a shock. He'd been cooped up in an underground cell for at least a week, maybe two, and had only glimpsed it fully after the fifth sparring match he had no choice but to participate in. The man had been _very_ careful for him not to see the damage each and every time, always facing him as they danced around each other and searched for a mutual weakness (how ironic a major one had been in plain sight all along). As they got to know each other better, their weaknesses became harder and harder to hide.

"Your disbelief is as plain as day. _Trust_ me, John."

Now they bare it all. ...For better and for worse.

Some days when they have the luxury of dozing on the couch he'll trace wondering fingers over the knobbled bumps along his loved one's spine. Thinking about how just a _little_ more damage could have kept the man from walking for good. The thought of a little recreation time later usually perks him up, but right now all he feels is an icy frustration that hardens him to his roots.

"Well." Blake tries, because it's just trying and trying at _this_ point, and bumps his forehead against his shoulder. "Be safe."

Bane kisses his cheek and mutters his fond farewell into his hair.

"As safe as I can be."

Bane's day-to-day routine is even more strict than his diet. It involves stretches in the morning that gradually move down the full length of his body -- twisting his neck from side-to-side, leaning both hands against the wall to flex his shoulders, sometimes intensive yoga when the pain is particularly bad (and it often was, these days). His back brace is on more often than not. He'll switch between two different versions depending on whether he's at home or out in the village. His painkillers range from small amounts of analgesic (which get smaller by the week, since he was trying to wean himself off for good) to over-the-counter pills (not always guaranteed in this part of the world). He'll frequently nurse a cup of mulled wine or a vodka mix when it gets cold.

It works.

...Barely.

Blake rubs his back whenever he can, but only when the pain hits a certain threshold. He was pretty surprised to learn that _too_ much pain is better off not being inched down with a firm kneading, but with heat therapy, as digging fingers into spasming muscles can more easily bruise and leave them in a worse spot to recover. Bane's own neck wrap is custom made to fit along his broad shoulders as snugly as possible, though sometimes he leaves it on so long it's a wonder he doesn't give himself first-degree burns. Sometimes Blake wears it after a rough day, too, but...only when he's given the go-ahead.

Sometimes the former revolutionary pairs the heat therapy with aromatherapy. Blake's...still not quite sure how a nice smell does _anything_ for fucked musculature, but Bane swears by it. He's often teaching him about old-world medicine and 'natural techniques forgotten by the self-titled civilized world'. When it's not filled with leftover remnants of Earl Grey their place is always smelling of thyme or sage or jasmine. The boys asked last time he visited why he 'smells like a girl'. It was a rather interesting talk, both for the opportunity to discuss misogyny _and_ the fact he'd gotten completely used to being coated in a cloud of lavender. He theorizes the reason Bane likes strong scents so much is because his mask kept them from him for years.

Yeah, it all works...but at a _price_. Thanks to all this Bane sees a chunk of his morning _and_ a chunk of his night devoted to the strict self-care regimen. He'll work himself to the bone making every minute matter, yet still have days where he can hardly make it across the _house_ , much less train with the villagers, scout with the League or finish chores. Every time Blake asks about the possibility of meeting a neurosurgeon -- a minor aside here, an outright _question_ there -- he's met with the same shitty answer, again and again and again and again and again.

He's _thinking_ about it...or, as he once so eloquently put it, " _I am giving it a ponderous consideration, mother hen, cease your clucking._ "

"Fucking _clucking_." Blake mutters to himself as he brews a cup of strong black tea, the only kind of leaf water he can drink without craving coffee.

When in doubt? Pester Barsad.

"And you're asking _me..._

"I mean, I figured you would have done something by now, if you could." Blake adds as they leave the perimeter, caffeinated and ready to take on the day. The man is razor sharp, though, and picks up on the still-inquisitive, " _But..._ " without egging, pale brows bouncing up to graze his bangs.

"...Of course."

The day's cool, just a little cloudy, and the green hasn't quite faded from the plains yet. This growing village still didn't have a name, but it's certainly been making one for itself by 'somehow' giving Astana's abusive overseers the boot a few months back. Many in _and_ around the country were still scratching their heads as to how and, as far as he was concerned, they could scratch forever. There was only going to be more pushback from here. All the more reason to get Bane (or Behnam, as he was known here and everywhere else) the help he needed while he had the time.

"Yes, his stubbornness is fair match for us, too." Barsad responds, with a lazy half-smile that's far from condescending. "I have brought it up, once, and he made it quite clear that would be the last time."

"So you _could_ do something?" Blake pushes, heart clutching with just a little hope. One of the League members calls out from their perch atop the steppe, blending in with the rock so smoothly he wouldn't have been noticed otherwise. Barsad waves back, stride unbroken.

"We could _try_ , at least, but...he has always lived too dangerous a lifestyle for trying. Amani is a skilled medic and familiar with nerve damage, yes, but they've only ever done minimally invasive surgeries." Barsad frowns. "Even now that we are momentarily settled...I still can't imagine he'd want to take the risk. He's not fond of weakness, being a natural leader..." He raises his eyebrows again, as if to reassure he _knows_ Blake's seen this hang-up firsthand. "...taking this into account, I have always wondered if another factor was to blame."

"Yeah." Blake winces at the thought. "I agree."

Or, rather, he _thinks_ he does. This man has always been good at shuttering himself away -- especially back when he was Bane in _more_ than just memory -- and that has yet to change. Even after all their emotional back-and-forth there were still times he would shut down entirely, wrapping himself up in disarming dark humor and secrets too layered for basic prodding and poking. The memory alone and he can already feel himself starting to seethe in preparation. It's nothing short of a natural wonder how Bane can state things so plainly, so honestly, and _still_ seem like he's beating around the bush.

He knows. He's _thinking about it_. Yet he suffers, for no good reason.

The cold wind whips their faces, just shy of uncomfortable from their brisk walk. Blake jogs in place to keep his heartrate up as Barsad confers with Khalil by the point, staring off into the yellow plains he's starting to think of as home. Nearly two years after that terrifying, bizarre first encounter and he should _know_ better than to think he has this guy all figured out. Blake may have been a detective, Robin may be successfully living a double-life while wanted for a murder charge in the world's most notorious city, but _Behnam_...well, he used to be the world's greatest walking enigma.

A sour, angry little part of him thinks he still prides himself on the fact.

"Now, Robin...even if I _did_ know why he's being so hesitant..." Barsad begins again, with his usual mild-yet-authoritative tone. Months after taking up the mantle of the League's newest leader and his affect has hardly budged. Blake shakes his head quickly.

"No, no, I get it. You wouldn't tell me. I mean, I wouldn't _want_ you to tell me. It's his business." He lets out the weary laugh he's held in for fuck knows how long. "I just want him to get _help_ , that's all."

Barsad's smile grows warm with sympathy. He checks his rifle strap, then reaches over and pats his shoulder once.

"We all do."

\--

It's not that he doesn't know what the problem is. He just wants Bane to stop _thinking_ about it and start _talking_ about it.

One of the first things he learned about him was his almost _supernatural_ skill with the unsaid. For someone who could use words as brutally as any weapon he's never had any trouble with secrecy. It made sense. It was part of that image he cultivated for so many years. His twisted mask, flowery words and trail of meticulous violence were as careful as ingredients in a recipe, he once told him (and later snorting when Blake made a joke about cultural indigestion). When they started getting to know each other and he was _finally_ able to look beyond the surface, peek by tiny, vulnerable peek? These secrets became as frustrating as they were necessary. Bane had only given him a few clues throughout the messy, uneven journey of their growing relationship, but that was fine.

Blake and Robin were both detectives. Putting two-and-two together has never been a problem.

... _but._

Relationships weren't projects. They _definitely_ weren't a one-man show and, while they had a beginning, they didn't have a straightforward ending. They were...collaborations. Team efforts that took a lot of patience just to approach, much less achieve. Bane didn't share the origin of his back scar until many months after they met, in the cool dark of a mountain underbelly with pool water blanketing their waists and the concerns of the day kept at the cave entrance. He didn't just set Talia free when she was a child. He left himself truly _alone_ , at the mercy of jealous prisoners sharing the pit with him, and was tortured for all his trouble. Hot candle wax, he said. Dripped along his spine in some makeshift fucking game alongside traded beatings between the other captives.

It's the anger at the mere memory of that conversation -- stewing stronger all day long -- that makes him forget his caution one evening when Bane gets in one of his moods.

It wasn't of the violent sort -- he was a ruthless man, always, but it wasn't _anything_ like the domineering greed Blake dealt with back in the force. It was too ponderous. ...Unnerving, honestly. Like a quiet storm brewing in the distance that would could either totally suffocate a person or just pass them over without a second glance. This personal storm fills the entire kitchen from top to bottom, and Blake knows he's not giving the incoming thunder the respect it wants when he presses the issue for the third time.

"...Drop it."

"But you just-"

" _Enough._ "

Like a crack of lightning what little domesticity was left from the relaxing evening goes out in a flash. Bane is right back to his infuriatingly stoic self, turning on one heel and stalking out without a sound. Blake bristles, swallowing back all the commentary he wants to fling at his back. Oh, maybe he _would_ let it go...if he hadn't dropped a dish for the third time in the same _night_.

It's been a rough week. The man has grown restless over the past two days, tired of having to recover at home even though he's kept himself occupied: collaborating with the local farmers on providing more useful agricultural tech to support the town's growing population, namely. Kazakhstan wasn't known for having the most fruitful land on the planet -- there was a reason much of their cultural cuisine was meat and grain-based -- but there were ways of working around it, given enough intel. It's all been a _huge_ learning experience for Blake, being a city-slicker with a capital C whose knowledge of fresh produce began and end with the nearest grocery store.

Today had already been a lot of walking and talking, but Bane insisted on helping clean the kitchen after Blake made a meal he was actually proud of (though he completely burned the sauce after getting distracted with a Gotham phone update). The first time he dropped the knife it was in the middle of chopping up potatoes. He'd waved it off and said he just wasn't paying attention. Blake already found damning evidence, because the man handled dangerous objects as easily as someone would brush their _teeth_. Still. He'd shrugged, turned back to his work dicing onions and changed the subject to the village kids' hand-to-hand combat training.

The second time he'd dropped his fork while eating. Bane hadn't even bothered to mention it, snatching it with _lightning_ quickness and continuing his speech like nothing had happened. It was hard to figure out which of those details was more startling.

The third time...was a plate.

Bane is quiet as a cat most of the time, so the sudden shatter had Blake nearly leaping out of his _skin_. He ran to the kitchen to find him leaning against the counter, brow pinched tight and a painful, uneven bent to his shoulders. Reaching out to him was what his brain was telling him to do, but his gut instinct had grappled with the man's pride more than once. Instead he stood...and waited. Lingered in the doorway and waited until he cleaned up the mess and left. Blake double-checked the floor for any missed shards, playing the entire day over in his head and searching for clues as to what the _hell_ he was still missing in this equation.

\--

They _finally_ broach the subject a full week later -- or, rather, Blake does -- and, like usual, it's not nearly as much progress as he'd hope. He sees the warning signs before he's let the last syllable leaves his mouth: when Bane's eyes droop low and his voice gets even lower, it's a sign right off the bat he isn't going to _listen_.

"Now?" He asks, tea cup empty and patience just about as drained. "Again?"

"Yes, now, and _yes_ , again." He's not going to slap his forehead, not when he's starting to veer out of righteous fury into the pit of genuine, agonizing _fear_. "Just...tell me why. That's all I ask."

Bane's brows slowly raise, face as stony as a statue's. Making it clear what he thinks of _that_ little promise.

"Yaakov was a fair doctor, but poorly equipped and overworked in the pit. There was only so much he could do for me. I am still of the belief he put me in an even worse spot before the League found me. Through negligence or a personal grudge is dust in the wind." Bane's voice isn't high and eccentric now, instead starting to grate with his old, bitter fury, like the mask is right back on his face and mincing up his speech. "To place my life in the hands of a white-collar _brute_ is a very, _very_ low priority and something you need to respect sooner rather than later."

"Then, what, you'll juggle half a dozen different painkillers and wear that brace and struggle to stand straight for the rest of your _life_?" Blake resists the urge to groan the rest of his words out. God, it feels like they've been at this for years. He wants to tug his hair right out of his head. "You're not getting any _younger_ , you know."

Bane's fingers twitch. Like he's gripping something invisible, the classic cue he's losing his rare temper. Blake isn't afraid he'll lash out (a fucking wonder, really, even after all this time). No, he's afraid he'll _withdraw_ and completely shut off from any suggestions for good. It's bizarre the guy acts like he's invincible, when he's waxed poetic about _all_ his close brushes with death and makes no bones about the daily chores he has to go through just to remain functional. Barely! He has to swallow down another urge to rattle off months' worth of thoughts in a stream-of-consciousness -- this damn conversation was going on long enough -- and he hastily condenses the important bits into the most basic sentence possible.

"This..." Blake sucks in a breath through his nose. "...look. This is something we could both work with, because what you're doing isn't _working_."

"It _is_ working."

"No, it's _not_." Now he just wants to scream. "Seriously? You lose hours every _day_."

Bane lifts his chin and stares him down. He doesn't need to fucking do that -- he's always been taller than him -- and Blake feels the queasy clench of anger in his stomach he _still_ feels some need to reclaim power.

"I lost _years_ , John. These hours are what I take back. _My_ reclamation. _My_ choice."

"Okay. Your power. Got it. So what you're telling me is you _really_ wouldn't rather be doing anything else?" It's going to sting, his next words, and maybe they have to. "...Hanging out with the kids? Riding in the plains? Swimming in the river? None of that sounds like a better use of your time?"

Bane's large, weathered hands slowly ball into fists, the line of his shoulders so stiff Blake could spin a dreidel on them. ...Yeah. That last one...hurts for them both.

Blake had realized a few weeks back -- for as much as his swimming skills could _really_ use some work -- he _loved_ the feel of the water. It felt like freedom. Even nicer because of how a quick dip took strain off his bad hip. When he found out Kazakhstan was the perfect place to fine tune a rusty skill he practically _backflipped_ at the opportunity. There was a beautiful river a few miles from the village they've started visiting on a semi-regular basis...until it became too taxing for Bane. The walk to, the ride back. Even on a _good_ day the man would feel the build-up of _all_ his other missed obligations in his already tight schedule and swimming...eventually took a backseat.

Blake hadn't forgotten heading out with Marat and Barsad for a few hours of play and almost choking at the sheer _envy_ in his voice when he wished them well. Bane hasn't forgotten much, either, because he hears that same shade now.

"A fine speech. What of you and your hip, then? Your own chronic pain and delayed ambitions." The thick, knobbled scars on his lips twitch with a barely concealed snarl. "Or is this little more than morally superior browbeating?"

Blake leans back and _gapes_. Sure, it's not the first time he's put other people's health before his own, to disastrous results, but...this is _far_ from the case! He opens his mouth, quickly, to correct him...then snaps it back shut at the realization. ...Bane's doubling the topic back onto him. _Actually_ beating around the bush now and lashing out to cover it up. If he weren't so damn worried he'd be startled by how uncharacteristically childish he's being. Blake shakes his head in exasperation and bulls forward, determined not to give him an inch.

"What the...I _want_ to get surgery for my hip! Come on, I'm not a fan of chronic pain any more than you are. I just need to figure out how much the medical bills are _and_ how long my therapy will take so I can keep scheduling visits here. I even thought about just signing up with someone in Astana and commuting back and forth-" He has to stop the rest of the words tumbling out and validating Bane's behavior, not like he can _help_ it. They've been tip-toeing around this subject for what feels like forever. This is all emotional backwash. "Look, don't make me out to be some massive hypocrite just trying to make you look bad. I want you to get help. Got it? _Help._ It's a four-letter word for someone who gives a _shit_."

"Don't _patronize_ me!" Bane snaps. Blake bristles.

"Well, don't twist my _words!_ "

He's prepared to tell him about all the clinics he's looked into -- Gotham included -- but he doesn't need to. Bane's eyes have grown wide, flicking back and forth as he searches for something else to latch onto...then he deflates like an old tire. A little, anyway. There's still that heavy frustration filling the room -- Blake can _feel_ it as easily as his own two feet -- but it's more...aimless now. A puff of smoke instead of that thundercloud.

' _...He's afraid. Maybe terrified._ ' He realizes, watching Bane as he hisses a sigh through his nose and shelters his scowl in the corner of the kitchen. ' _And he doesn't know how to deal with it._ '

"Hey...I know you're scared..." He tries, haltingly, and Bane abruptly lurches to his feet, much faster than he should.

"Caution is not _fear_." He's grabs his thick coat and rolls it on, casting a glare over one bulky shoulder. "I thought you learned this by now."

Fuck it. Blake balls his hands into fists and lets drip every last pound of spite he's got.

"Fine. _Fine_ , all right, go ahead and fucking insult me for caring." He yells just as the door slams. "Don't forget to come back and drink yourself silly before _bed!_ "

\--

It's not easy hiding the truth from Bane. Shit, the guy's favorite term of endearment is how he's a piss-poor liar.

(As far as he was concerned that wasn't _entirely_ true. He'd done it well enough over the years covering up childhood anger and grief under a persona of amicable indifference. Bane just liked rubbing it in his face he was an open book to him.)

It doesn't hurt to be prepared, though. So...he hides it in plain sight.

Blake tells him he's getting a gift for the boys over breakfast. That part is most certainly true. Joel's birthday was on its way again and he wanted to get a headstart on the St. Swithin's Birthday Round-Up by stopping by a few local shops in Astana. He finally had a little extra money and he was going to make sure they _all_ got a little taste of the outside world. Bane's adoration of the boys has only grown stronger with distance -- loved them ever since they first met, even when he found them overwhelming at first -- and he wastes no time offering up gift ideas.

"Kazakhstan boasts a long and unique history. Amir would no doubt enjoy a peek into their artistic expression." Bane carefully writes him a long list of artists in his signature loopy cursive, with that eerily accurate memory of his. "I'm unfamiliar with his musical taste, however. Is he particular to homegrown folk?"

"He likes classical." Blake studies the floral curves at the end of some of his letters. "Close enough, right?"

"Close like your arm and leg, yes."

Blake snorts. A small smile twitches the corner of Bane's mouth, gaze still on the paper. Neither of them bring up the fight.

Three days later he tells him he's helping Barsad with intelligence near Karaganda. This is _also_ true. The League Of Shadows may be reformed, revamped _and_ under new direction, but it was still built off the same foundation, which meant never putting its eggs in one basket. It's a lot of cross-referencing and calling and understandable rejections (he gets one who speaks English very well who _also_ thinks he's some scam artist). Blake channels Robin during these moments. Keeps his lies minor. His attitude casual. Not unlike the disaffected charm of the classic Gothamite just trying to get through the workweek in one piece.

When he places a thin folder in front of him on the dinner table the surprise in his eyes is completely genuine.

"...What is this?" Bane asks once he's finished chewing, gaze low-lidded and anything but lazy.

"I asked around." Blake starts, not too carefully, even though he can feel eggshells gradually littering the tiny kitchen space with each passing second. "...about doctors in and around Astana."

A long silence. More eggshells. The man taps his fork around the plate, the _clink-clink_ ringing sharp as a door slam.

"You asked...previous patients?"

"Yeah."

Bane's eyes are cold steel. He's leaning forward with his elbows on the table, chewing slowly and watching him silently, visually patient to anyone who doesn't know him as well as Blake does. He gets this quiet when he's pissed about the conversation, but knows there's a good reason to have it. God, it _still_ puts him on edge. At least _arguing_ would give him something to butt his head against, details to pick apart and solid points to push, but he has nothing else to guide him except his own gut instinct. His steak is getting cold, but it's the least of his worries.

"There's one by the name of Iskakov." Blake continues, as slowly as he can with impatience making a joke of his composure. "Heard some, uh, really good things about him. High success rate. Nearly thirty years of experience. That's not what caught my attention, though."

Another bite. More slow chewing. More silence.

"He's, uh, also dealt with nerve damage himself. Got into a bad car accident decades back and once he got out he switched his major from psychology to physical therapy." A slow breath. In and out, in and out. He can do this. "I'm not going to keep bugging you about this. It's your pain and your decision. I know that, honestly, I...okay, I talked to people about their experiences with doctors here. I got their accounts. Not just testimonals on the website or...paid advertisements."

Bane looks to his plate, the moody slope to his brow still not leaving, and delicately slices apart the meat with the fork and knife. The conversation's not over. There was a last word to get in, at least, and he still hasn't heard it. Blake feels something in him finally unclench when he speaks and says something _other_ than an elegant command to fuck off already.

"...They could say anything."

"Sure they could." He responds, instantly, then tries a disaffected shrug. "I didn't pay them, aside from buying them a coffee for their time. It's also my unofficial job to read between the lines and see what people are trying to hide, remember. They didn't think I was up to anything. They were more... _touched_ , than anything."

Bane's dark gaze flicks back to him, somehow razor-sharp and cloudy. He's been open about his issues around the village, but open in the sense that he was...connecting with people. Connecting with his stitched together family alongside his _other_ stitched together family. The people he interviewed were complete strangers, that he didn't tell him about until just now. Blake sighs again, helplessly this time, and resists the urge to reach out and clutch his hand.

"I know. I _know_ that's a breach of your privacy, I'm sorry. Not that I think what I did was wrong, necessarily, but sorry for making you feel like I'm trampling all over our trust. It's not...I wasn't trying to just..." His words are starting to trip over themselves, not at all helping his case. "I didn't give them your name or where you live. I didn't even embellish. Just told them enough to get me...us...walking in the right direction."

Something in those grey eyes flickers, but he doesn't get to pinpoint what it is, because Bane looks right back at his food and keeps eating. Blake the usual good, hard fume fizzling out early, replaced by unease and the painful sting of failure. He wills his body to at least wait until their plates are clear before speaking again. Instead of a relaxing evening he's feeling jittery and tense. It's hard to enjoy what the man's made -- an honestly _delicious_ lamb steak -- and the silence is getting physically uncomfortable. Bane doesn't speak for the rest of the dinner, still chewing carefully to mind his damaged mouth, and takes the folder with him alongside their empty plates.

He doesn't speak to him when they go to bed. They don't kiss each other goodnight.

\--

It's not often he puts on a chipper facade after they agreed to be honest with one another, no matter what, but...the last thing Behnam needs to see right now is him worried.

He mentally makes the switch from Blake to Robin -- or, when Bane spoke to him, John to Blake to Robin, _ha_ \-- as he gets ready for their trip to the city. It's an exercise he makes so he doesn't slip up, even though precious few people in Kazakhstan, if _any_ , would give a damn about who he used to be. It was a good habit to have when he made his inevitable way back to Gotham, still, where a single wrong step could see him locked up for good. He can still the little hints of the past around his feet, like crumbs. He keeps sweeping and tidying up, but there's always more to be found. Bane once told him he feels this way, too, and his mask had been both literal _and_ metaphorical.

He _knows_ all those doctors weren't jerking him around -- not with the way their faces softened in sympathy when he shared his reasonings, free from _too_ much detail -- but there was always a chance. _Always_ a chance the surgery could go wrong and leave him in a worse state than before. A wrong dose from a nursing assistant, maybe an equipment malfunction. That's even before the possibility of the doctor being too biased to do a complete job. It was a small chance (at least, he _hoped_ it was after all his research), but that's all it took to ruin a life, wasn't it? Waylon Jones found this out the hard way when he walked into a science facility under the guise of a harmless study and ended up being transformed into a child's worst nightmare.

Bane, well...he knew it better than he did. It didn't even matter how many times. One was too many.

"Want something to drink before we go in?" Robin offers. He could really go for a coffee himself -- he barely got any sleep the night prior -- but he doesn't want to make today about him. "My treat?"

Behnam shakes his head. He was completely silent the ride over, again as they walked through the city, and as they approached the towering, glassy building his eyes never left the front doors. Even though they're only going in for a consultation -- a simple back-and-forth on specs -- Robin really doesn't like the look on his face. He expected something angrier or at least more... _focused_. Something like that effortless determination that all but defined the man's every waking moment, his legendary ability to breeze through any obstacle with an elegant word and his head held high. This expression, it's...it's far too cold. Far too _vacant_.

...Wrong.

"...Behnam?"

He doesn't answer. Instead he hikes up the thick collar around his neck and starts walking toward the practice. That sense of wrong grows. Robin quickens his gait.

"...Hey." He starts, reaching out a hand on his shoulder to get him to slow down. When Behnam just keeps marching forward like a freight train he jogs up a few steps to stand in front of him. " _Hey._ Big guy."

"...What?" He hisses, already irritated.

"I'll be here. Okay?" He gives his shoulder a firm squeeze, looking right into that too-blank stare even as it makes his stomach churn. "If anything doesn't feel right we can leave."

"I have helped shred a government plane in two in _mid-air_." A hint of that classic confidence flashes in his eyes. Robin would be seriously glad to see it if it wasn't also accompanied by his usual ridiculous fucking stubbornness. "...alongside surviving assassination attempts and unnamed plagues. A simple consultation could do little."

For the love of. Robin _finally_ allows some of his own frustration to leak through.

"Oh, don't pull the tough guy act on me. It's okay to admit you're nervous, all right?"

"Spare me a speech." Robin's chest clenches hotly when Behnam brushes past him and wrenches open the front door. "Let's go."

' _One thing at a time._ ' He reminds himself with a barely restrained sigh, shoving hands into his pockets and slinking after him. Here's hoping the place had free complimentary drip coffee.

Cream walls. Shiny floors. The practice comes off as a little hoity-toity and he's hoping it's because they deliver, _not_ because their budget lacked priorities. His own stomping grounds may be an entire ocean and a few rocks away, but a big city was a big city was a big city. A shiny exterior didn't guarantee _shit_ and, judging by the disaffected curl to Behnam's scarred lips, he's thinking something similar as they make their way to the (gleaming) front desk. The receptionist glances between them one too many times, but remains polite and doesn't pry.

Small favors. Every time they're in public they make quite the pair, drawing hasty glances and the occasional outright stare. He does his best to care less, even though his new identity in Gotham has forced him to take every single last lingering look seriously. It might be a paranoia he'll never shake. Behnam doesn't talk while they wait in the main room. Just sits with his back stick-straight and his hands folded in his lap, ignoring the soft chatter around him and engaging instead in a staring contest with the middle distance. Robin doesn't bother trying to make small talk. The guy wasn't overly fond of it in public, anyway, and he wasn't really in the mood to be told to 'drop it' for the _thirtieth_ time in a month.

Robin can feel another brooding session coming on, a prickling heat beneath his skin that threatens to swallow up his chest and good sense whole. The only other person waiting is an older man, who openly gawks at Behnam's face when he takes his seat among the row of chairs. Eventually, as it occasionally does with strangers bold enough to ignore Behnam's towering physique, the gawking turns to an invasive question about his scars. Behnam doesn't answer. He _does_ , however, give the man a chilling sideways glance that immediately shuts him up.

"Behnam?" A voice calls down the hall.

Behnam turns. Without a word he gets to his feet. Robin debates whether or not to wish him luck -- would he even _want_ that or would he just dub it some annoying pleasantry meant to piss him off -- and his irritation dies when he sees the look on his face. It's a quick hesitation, as tiny as a grain of sand jammed in a gear and just as noticeable. To anyone else it would look like the guy is reacting slower than normal, dark stare boring into nothing in particular, but to him...

...fuck it. Robin reaches out and pinches the hem of his coat.

"I'll see you when you get out." He says, softly. Behnam seems to snap to at that, his gaze suddenly focusing and his breath evening out, like he just woke up. He doesn't look at him, but he _does_ nod, a curt little jerk of his head, then follows the doctor down the far right hall. Silent as a shadow.

With a sigh Robin settles down and tries to prepare for the following hour. It's hard not to hink to when he was barely holding together mentally, all the way in Gotham's outer woods where the League Of Shadows was hiding in plain sight after the city's largest protest in history. He'd been a _classic_ shitshow. Ran off in the middle of the night without warning, beat his fists against a tree trunk until they were bloody, then smoked himself to sleep. Bane had been worried sick when he found him the following morning... _furious_ , actually...but he never judged him. He understood. He was pissed as a Gotham cab driver with drunk entourage, but he _got_ it.

The least he could do was go easy on him.

"Your leg? It's, ah...broke? Broken?"

That same patient has decided to make casual talk with him, no doubt pegging him a little more friendly. Robin's not really in a talking mood, but it's probably a good opportunity to brush up on his second language. The villagers have been doing a great job working with him, sure, and he hasn't missed one practice session, but...he could improve even further by chatting up people he's never met before. It just didn't feel good when he was able to rattle off cheesy jokes in English, yet struggled to find even _one_ pun in Kazakh. Maybe someday he'd be able to tease Marat for once. Oh, _that'd_ be the day.

"A little." Robin replies, moving his hand for emphasis. Body language has saved him _many_ a time in this country.

"Ah. Hurt?" The man presses, jerking a stubbled chin at his hip. Robin shakes his head. He's used to getting stares when out with Behnam and _very_ used to having his bum leg inspire conversation. Not his favorite icebreaker (people have limps, it's not that odd), but at least this one was _mildly_ more relevant, considering the location.

"No. Well, yes. It is bad, but not...here for this." He says, haltingly, and feels the usual sinking of his stomach when the man squints at his poor grammar. "No, wait...look, here..."

He lifts up his jacket and inches down his belt to show off the short, knobbled scar. His bushy eyebrows pop up in appreciation. The man then gestures to the back of his neck, which has a slight knob bumping out.

"Car crash." He states, matter-of-factly. Robin winces. Ouch.

It's a bumbling, stumbling attempt at conversation, but he enjoys every minute of it. He learns the man's name is Sanzhar and has visited the practice several times. Guy was probably being nosy not to single them out, but to feel a little less alone in it all. Ha, he can definitely relate to that. Robin opens his mouth to tell him about his _other_ battlescar when a rough scream cuts through the building. ...Down the _right hall_. Robin lurches to his feet, the painful seizing of his hip at the sudden movement nothing compared to the hammering in his chest.

' _Oh, no._ ' A heavy _thud_ follows not a second later -- hard enough to sound like a body -- and his heart tries to leapfrog right out of his throat. ' _Fuck, oh, no-_ '

Robin bolts through the waiting room and toward the hall. A nurse juts out an arm to stop him -- talking too rapidly, he can only catch the gist of what she's saying -- and he holds up a hasty hand, trying to look placating even as he's practically _shoving_ past her to get to the far door. It's sheer _luck_ he arrives right as one of the doctor's assistants opens it up and leans out to scream down the hallway for help. Robin takes his chance, slipping in before he gets double-teamed and dragged away.

It's worse than he feared. A chair is knocked over. There are papers strewn out in a messy arc on the floor. Iskakov is on his back. Behnam is on his feet, looming over the doctor with one arm in his grip. His other hand is held out, fingers crooked outwards, a sign he's less than an inch away from _killing the man_.

" ** _Behnam!_** "

The sound of his voice cuts through the clamor, but only just. The nurse behind him, the one that opened the door, is muttering rapidfire to someone he can't see. The secretaries in the waiting room are calling out in alarm. There's a hand on his shoulder now, but he ignores it, watching the former leader of the League Of Shadows as he struggles against the trauma in real time.

"Hey, Behnam, listen to me. _Listen_ to me. You're okay." Robin starts in rapidfire English. He has no idea what the _hell_ he's doing because he's a detective, not a _counselor_ , and he rushes forward anyway because to stay silent was to make an already bad situation fifty times worse. "He's not going to hurt you. _Nobody_ is going to hurt you. We can leave. We can leave, okay?"

Behnam doesn't wear his mask anymore, but his breathing sounds _disturbingly_ similar in the close room. His chest is heaving, like he just ran a mile, and a vein in his neck throbs erratically. He looks completely wild, a split-second comparison that reminds Robin horribly of the time he called him feral. No. No, he can't think about that. That was then. This was _now_. This was _different_.

"Behnam. Behnam, listen to my voice." He says again, so soft it likely doesn't break through the chatter still filling up the hallway behind him, hitting that tender note only Behnam could hear. "Big guy."

That does it.

Behnam seems to come back into himself, slowly looking away from the doctor and over to the door like he's just noticed the commotion the first time. The physician is plainly _terrified_ , dark hair askew and trembling visibly even from this distance. When Behnam finally lets go Iskakov all but scrambles away, his arm a nasty red and guaranteed to turn purple later. A vaguely floaty feeling overcomes him as the consequences of the past minute and a half start to sink in. ...This man was famously strong. That simple grip could be a fracture. This was bad. Not only would he not get the help he needs -- no fucking _way_ now -- but they were in _trouble_.

The next hour is an eternity.

Robin feels his brain about to snap with the effort of getting his point across with his intermediate language skills. It seems something was going to be lost in translation no matter what he did, because emphasizing to the nurses that Behnam was startled (or the best equivalent he could find in Kazakh, closer to 'scared' and something he doesn't _want_ to say in earshot of the man) doesn't click. He knows what they're thinking. ' _How can a guy who looks like that be scared?_ '

' _A lot of ways._ ' He thinks, the fury coming in so _hot_ he has to put on his old, socially acceptable frown to mask it. ' _Plenty of fucking ways._ '

"Were you scared?" The head of the practice asks Behnam, who has said all of five words the entire time. Robin stares meaningfully over the man's shoulder. Begging with his eyes to please, _please_ , not let his stubbornness get in the way for once.

Behnam is silent for so long it seems like he's not going to say anything at all. He's done things most people probably wouldn't believe even _if_ they saw it play out with their own two eyes. Shit, even Robin still had a hard time swallowing the man led a team to destroy a plane mid-air and create the world's most elaborate and _somehow_ most subtle kidnapping. He'd personally witnessed him take down a mutant alligator man with his _bare hands_ , on top of shielding him from falling debris in a collapsing building, then jumping _out_ of said collapsing building. Nevermind all the times he floored him in hand-to-hand combat without breaking a sweat. All this time together and the closest he'd gotten to besting him in a one-on-one fight was tricking him.

Surely admitting to a bad moment in front of a few people wouldn't be _too_ farfetched?

Behnam lowers his chin, like he's facing down a firing squad, and says:

"No."

Robin actually goes lightheaded with rage.

Witnesses are pulled aside and talked to, including Sanzhar. Security is brought in, two grouchy older men with no decorum whatsoever, and he's uncomfortably reminded of all the times he tried to break through people's inherent distrust of law enforcement when he wore the badge. The doctor looks like he's barely holding onto decorum himself after his scare, crossing his arms with great care and trying not to let his nerves show. If it were anyone _other_ than Behnam who grabbed him he might call him a little soft. Ha. No, he was lucky he didn't have a broken neck. Of course, he wasn't about to tell him that.

The head physician gives them a referral to another clinic, tight-lipped yet polite. No charges are pressed -- apparently it's not the first time a client got freaked out, he was just the most _aggressive_ about it -- and Robin is sure he's personally worn out the Kazakh word for 'thank you so much' when they just tell Behnam he can't come back. After changing his identity to not be arrested he has an entirely new appreciation for the phrase 'better than nothing'. He should probably check if Kazakh has an equivalent saying.

They leave the clinic with what feels like hundreds of eyes following their every movement. Behnam is completely silent, with that same distant, hollow look in his eyes that Robin should've treated like a warning sign. Except...he did. He _tried_ to talk and all he got was one wall after another. He doesn't look at the man -- not trusting himself to launch into another furious rant if he does -- and it's just another long, awkward, blisteringly silent ride on the way back to the village.

Bane retreats into his needlework when they get home. Blake stares into the tea cabinet for what feels like an hour and eventually accepts in-between choosing the decaf breakfast tea and starting the stove that no amount of digging will bring him back out tonight.

\--

The following week is what Barsad would call 'a study in patience'. God, he _sucks_ at patience.

He thinks of it while helping Marat's family pulling weeds near the square, how it was similar to Behnam's other _other_ favorite terms of endearment. Blake The Impatient. Early Bird Robin. Short Yawn John. He's starting to realize the man, for all that he was deeply critical by nature, found something to like even in his flaws. He wishes he could say the same, because the past days' worth of brooding silence between them have only left him stewing deeper and deeper in his own juices. His gut tells him, as it _always_ does, what he needs to know: this is a trauma he isn't personally equipped to handle. His brain, on the other hand, goes straight for frustrating, infuriating logic.

One weed doesn't want to come out, and he accidentally tears off the top by yanking too hastily. Damn it all. All he wanted to do was _help_. How was that complicated? It's just...he got the panic attack. He got the fear. Why wouldn't he? After Crane's toxin, killing the Deputy Commissioner _and_ getting shot twice he was pretty damn skippy when it came to getting trauma. But the fact Bane didn't talk to him about what could happen -- just shut himself away, shuttered away like the world's most threatening turtle into its shell -- just...hurt.

A sharp breeze cuts through his whirlwind of thoughts, shuddering him from top-to-bottom. God, it's a cold day. Winter is right around the corner, barely held at bay now, and he has to pause in his work to hitch up his scarf as close to his nose as possible. Even being a Gothamite hasn't had him prepared for Kazakhastan chills. Well. At least the anger is heating him up.

"All right over there?" Marat's still wearing short sleeves, skin only just now showing goosebumps. Blake smiles and nods.

"Fantastic."

It _can't_ make Bane feel any better, dividing and conquering himself into little messy bits. Blake digs into the hard, dry soil, yanking out the rest of the root with a mixed feeling of success. How is it he's seen this man do so much and so little at the same time? He's seen Bane cry _once_ , and that was entirely by accident. He was there when Bane was passed out from withdrawal, ten times worse than the bruises he'd been covered in simultaneously. When he was recovering from broken ribs and the betrayal of both his batshit crazy daughter, when he surived his defecting League members, in so much pain he could barely untangle a ball of string. He's seen him go through so _much_. He doesn't understand why things feel so different, yet like nothing's changed.

Blake hunches over his work, yanks out dirty root after root after root, and accepts that it all just...hurts.

' _I love you._ ' The past days' anger finally softens, from a burning wound into a tiny, tender bruise that aches far worse. ' _...just wish you'd let me._ '

Miriam walks over with a fresh bowl of fried donuts, which he eagerly accepts. He's taking the man's personal trauma...personally. It's not fair of him. Bane hasn't gotten a lot of opportunities for relationships like this in his life. He's made some pretty incredible progress, all things told. But did that make any of what happened...okay? How many times can he be forgiving before he's just enabling self-destructive behavior? Come to think of it, maybe he _would_ make a good counselor. He's certainly good at running a problem into the ground, if nothing else.

The anger and hurt, now properly recognized, starts to swell into guilt, none of these emotions helping whatsoever with daily training exercises _or_ scouting with the new recruits. He hides it well enough -- only Miriam gives him a funny look when he crackes a joke that apparently doesn't sink in properly -- but it's high time they had a discussion on what happened. A small part of him is extra glad he chose to gave him space over pushing another talk too soon. It certainly makes him look like less of a prick, for all that these reasons are completely selfish.

Still. A little more indirect apology couldn't hurt. So Blake takes care of dinner before Bane comes home, and hopes it'll be enough.

He pays a quick visit to Miriam for a spare onion, doubling his speed on the way back even as his hip complains. Sometimes they try new recipes, but comfort food is more fitting for the evening. It's hard not to keep glancing out the window as he cooks. He's not used to being apprehensive about him coming home, at _all_ , and he chides himself the third time he realizes he's sneaking a peek through the knitted curtains. In the middle of double-checking the sauce he catches a familiar hulking shadow moving up the hill, the quiet apprehension that's been on a steady simmer bubbling into full-blown nerves.

"Hey." Blake manages when Bane walks in, as casual as he can be with his heart racing.

Bane shivers the excess water off his shoulders before walking in fully, patting the tip of his boots on the mat. Hulking, yet graceful. Just like a big bear. He'd make a joke about it, but the next two words feel a lot harder than normal.

"Dinner's ready."

"Thank you."

Blake rubs his hair as Bane shrugs off his coat and hangs it by the door. So far, so good.

"...Heated up some wine, too." He puts a smile on his face he hopes reaches his voice. "It's chilly out."

It's...not exactly subtle. Even if he _were_ that canny mind would probably spot any cracks in a heartbeat, him being the world's worst liar and all that. Bane turns his head to glance over his shoulder, though he doesn't make eye contact, his eyes low-lidded and cast in a tired shadow.

"...Thank you."

He sounds bushed, but it's the weariness underneath those two syllables that shakes his soul. God, he's tired of constantly holding back the urge to hold him. He just wants this whole row to be _over_. When he doesn't show any inclination toward talking again Blake lets a tiny note of defeat drop into his stomach, retreating to the kitchen to pull out plates and quietly set up the table. Bane helps, moving around him with some of the natural ease that's been missing these past frustrating days. Only when the drinks are poured does the silence get shaken.

"We should talk."

Blake tries to keep track of the seconds, both too slow and too fast all of a sudden. Bane's ready to talk, but now he's not. He's starting to realize he doesn't just suck at patience. He also sucks at irony.

' _Patience, lying, irony. College only teaches you two of those things_.'

Blake nods, reaching over to crack open a window and let some of the stuffy air out. Evening casts a cozy glow between the homemade curtains, a warmth he tries to internalize. Bane hunkers down at the wooden table and knits his fingers together, dinner untouched.

"I have...thought long and hard about what happened this week. Things I've said, done or haven't done." He starts, low and slow. Blake's shoulders ripple instinctively at that phrase, but keeps his face impassive and his mouth shut. "It is a wonder I can still walk." He flexes his hands slowly. Spreading his fingers, then closing, then opening. Redundant movements to focus his energy, though pain still finds its way into his voice. "...I thought I could...work with small wonders."

They'd kicked him. Beat him. Came up with torture games to see how much pain he could go through before passing out or just giving up and dying. Bane hadn't just held on. He'd survived long enough to be rescued from the pit, returning years later to enact revenge on those very same people and transform one of the world's oldest hellholes into his own personal prison. Blake had a pretty good imagination, but he didn't need it here. Not when Bane once told him he'd blinded the prison doctor and left him alive in the pit, all because he'd been peripherally involved in the death of a friend.

This man he loved so much was just as cruel as he was _kind_. A storm that could just as soon strike a person dead where they stand as provide them with water. Blake's getting better at telling when to nudge him and when to let him make his way over. He sits up a little straighter, keeps his expression level and practices some patience.

"Iskakov had asked me to gauge my pain. A basic conversational, then physical procedure to give a better overview of where the chronic issue is located. To get to the _why_ and see me healing. These bloody memories still...beat under my skin. He touched my lower back and all I could...the only things I could...see..."

Bane grinds to a stop, crushes his eyes shut and bows his head low, hands curling into fists and his breathing taking up that disturbing uptick he heard at the practice. For a moment Blake thinks he's going into another attack. He shifts in his chair, stuck in horrible limbo, unsure whether to reach out to him or give him space or say _something-_

"...I despise a lack of control. It is...a vice, sometimes." Bane grits. Oftentimes, Blake might've said a few days ago, but he still doesn't speak. Not when this is much, _much_ closer to what he's been hoping to hear. His expression is shuttering with his usual attempts at control. Frustrated. Anguished. Then...calm. "This urge to control can...keep me from being free. I was being stubborn." A long pause. "...and afraid."

Now Bane looks to him. Not staring him down this time, but...tentative, like a wild animal trying to suss out friend from foe.

"If you could...stay in the room...during the physical." He asks, hoarsely. "...Please."

Blake tries to keep the smile on his face mild, even though he's inwardly cheering. His heart is flipping with relief. It's such a monumental hurdle, all in a single sentence, and for a moment he's dizzy with success. He takes his hand -- so much larger than his own, so much more calloused -- and pets the heavy scars on his knuckles.

"Sure. Yeah, I can do that. I mean, I _wanted_ to, just...thought it would embarrass you." It's his turn now to lay down some common ground. "I know I was being really pushy."

"You have done worse things than demand better for me." Bane stares solemnly at their joined hands. "Had I bade you accompany me in the room, instead of holding you at arm's length, that might have been what I...the element to keep me from..." He trails off. His sigh is more than a little shaky. "...detaching." He meets his eyes without lifting his head. Grey as the foggy Gotham coast. "...I thought you would be angrier."

"Well. I hold my anger back with a mask...and I can't wear those around _you_." Blake scoffs. "I'm mostly just annoyed I had to look like such a chump. My Kazakh really needs some work."

"No journey is completed in a day." He states, wise to a fault, and his eyes droop down again. Blake frowns and leans his head down in attempt to hold his gaze.

"Hey. What's up...?"

"In my pride..." He sighs through his nose. "...and fear...I've lost out on more moments." Bane rubs an affectionate shape into his knuckles with one coarse thumb. "I should have lectured you less and kissed you more."

Blake slowly grins. Wordlessly he tugs and scoots his chair over so they're nearly side-by-side, then leans forward and helps Bane catch up on missed time.

\--

Blake has to convince the doctor to give him another chance. He could just find someone else, but there's a reason Ishkanov's name was repeated so many times in his research. He won't accept anything less than the absolute _best_ for Bane.

Robin offers to speak in Kazakh, to show some decency after the shitshow, but the doctor's English is far better and they both know it. The man admits that Behnam's back is such a mess a slightly lesser doctor probably wouldn't be the best option.

It was already a careful series of steps calling the practice ahead of time and explaining his case to the English-speaking receptionist. Now he's got to somehow get across that this patient will be worth his time. He considers saying ' _he wasn't going to hurt you or anything_ ', then thinks better of it. No...no, he _absolutely_ was, and the doctor wasn't dumb enough to fall for it when he'd been on the receiving end of a pissed off six-foot-seven man with biceps bigger than his head.

"I think it'd be best if he told you what he's going through." Robin concedes, and Ishkanov visibly blanches when Behnam steps into the room.

Bane's never had a problem telling a story. Behnam is no different. Robin leans against the doorway, admiring the casual, yet elegant way he elaborates on the visible _and_ hidden battles he faces every time he rolls out of bed in the morning. He's hunched in a chair a little too small for him, wearing a simple woolen jacket, yet his presence seems to fill the entire room. A 'firelight tale', Reilly used to call these. Ha, he remembers how the old man had shook his head when the boys asked him one night what made firelight tales different than seeing a story on the news or reading it on social media. Tiya had loudly proclaimed them boring and 'a relic of the past' (definitely a phrase he picked up from classmates). Jay had agreed, but for a different reason, stating the firelight made it hard to lip-read.

"It's _all_ the difference." Reilly had stated, crossing his arms and slouching back, already resigned to the boys' snickering. "There are no flashy videos or...or digital pictures or text. Just you and your words by the open fire. It's much more personal and all the better for it."

Reilly had groused when the boys laughed or rolled their eyes, soothed only when Blake stepped in and agreed. Even now...he does. There was something special about a simple story under the stars. That said, this doctor had a near-death experience, whether or not he wanted to fully admit it to himself, and even the most emotional tale would have a hard time butting up against that. Only during a break in the story does Robin excuse himself to go to the bathroom, because it was a _long_ bus ride over.

When he walks back into Ishkanov's room a few minutes later...the doctor's eyes are shining with _tears_.

His mind already fills in the gaps, automatic as it always is, though he's all smiles at what can only be the first, hard-won steps of progress. The doctor shakes Robin's hand once more, wishes them both a good day as he sees them out. Behnam shows him the appointment card on the bus back to the city limits, and lets Robin hugs him as tightly as possible without aggravating his back. Wherever the apprehension went, it's not here. Behnam stares off at nothing, but it's more thoughtful than anything. Like he's watching something play out in the distance, even though all Robin can see are bus passengers and a dry autumn sky.

Maybe he'll ask about the tale later. Maybe he won't. For once it's nice not to have to press, the desperation he's gotten used to these past weeks faded into a distant ache somewhere over his shoulder. Robin dozes on Behnam's shoulder on the bus. Makes small talk about the plaza weeds and the new recipe Miriam and Khalil are working on as they walk back. His heart lifts like a balloon when they come into view of their little house on the hill, and it's never felt so good to be back in his home away from home. Blake breathes in the leftover Earl Grey always clinging as he steps inside, rubbing the cold from his hands and happily thinking about what to eat.

Bane shivers off the brief shower that greeted them on the way, stomps the rest onto the doormat, then hangs his coat by the kitchen door...

"Ah, ah, no." Blake rushes over to stand in-between the alcove and the kitchen, raising both eyebrows as high as they'll go. " _I'm_ making dinner tonight. Sit down. Put your feet up."

Bane lifts his chin and looks down his nose at him. Blake leans back on his shoulders and crosses his arms.

"...You fixed dinner last night." He says, eventually, just as Blake is accepting he's going to lose the staredown.

"And?"

"And you burnt the sauce last time." It's brief, but he swears he sees Bane's eyes twinkle. "Marginally, but still."

"All right. I can handle criticism. I'll just keep an eye on it this time." Blake counters. Like a low jab the reply is quick, to the point.

"Then who will taste test?"

"You will." He tilts his head at the table. "...As you sit down, relax and let me do the thing."

Bane's gaze drifts over his shoulder to the table and twin chairs, then around the kitchen, pondering. Blake waits for him to make another excuse or challenge him as he heats up a pan and drizzles an oil circle, but when he meets his eyes again they're...holding something else.

"...May I watch?"

Blake purses his lips as if considering, turning back around and picking up the spatula to flip the onions before they burn.

"...'Course." He eventually says, then adds: "Just don't backseat cook."

A helpless smile spreads on his face when Bane wraps arms around his waist, growing even bigger when he tucks his scarred chin into the crook of his shoulder and stays there as the sugar turns brown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while.
> 
> Makes me chuckle sometimes that one of my all-time favorite pairings is a pure crackship, yet here I am, revisiting them well after the Nolan movies wrapped up. Pretty par for the course, though. I finished 'The Calm Beneath The Waves' a little over a _year_ ago, and that story itself technically took me several years to write. This sequel has been sitting patchwork on my computer for _months_ now and it's about time I put it up.
> 
> Whether you read the first fic or are coming into this from a standalone standpoint, thank you for coming by and reading. I'm not sure how much I'll update this, but I do know I miss these two like _crazy_. Even if it's just a handful of chapters, it feels so good to reconnect with a story that left such a big impact on me.
> 
> While not required reading to understand this story, you can read [ The Calm Beneath The Waves here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8407603/chapters/19265131)


	2. Almost Too Tender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is full of little journeys. Bane and Blake have already taken the first step on a new one. Getting to the end of the road, however, is easier said than done.
> 
> Trigger warning for depictions of grief.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/161810444@N05/47749939272/in/dateposted/)

**Song Inspiration:** "Higher" by Tash Sultana

*

Blake's still not used to sunny skies and the familiar chatter of familiar people, but he's well on his way.

"Why are you laughing?"

Blake grins and grabs another fistful of clay.

"Oh, nothing."

The village plaza is starting to take shape. Originally a ramshackle area of open spaces broken up by old wooden fence or sheet metal walls, it's slowly starting to carve out into something almost... _romantic_. A new clinic nestled between Aiym and Duman's house, refurbished from one of the tiny shacks. A new reclaimed wooden sign at the end of the main road, handcrafted by Marat. Witnessing the growth of this place rattles a strange part of him. An underdeveloped, closed-off slice that can only come from growing up in a big city. One of the kids playing nearby -- rewarded for their hard work with a few uninterrupted hours of ball -- takes a spare glob of clay and tosses it.

" _Hey!_ We need those, come on." Blake calls, waving them away. "Go on, try to beat my high score instead, huh?"

He grins at the responding jeers and squalls, one of the boys picking up the ball and attempting to show off by bouncing it on his head. The week has been stressful for more reasons than one, yet there's always something to do. Always a reason to get right back to smiling and joking. It's like a home base he flees to, except it's his second home and current permanent one. Ha. Third, technically. If seeing the village kids running around under his supervision hits a little too close to home, well. That's because it is.

All week long he's been helping set up another well. The League has several members _far_ more familiar with the ins and outs of plumbing, but he's still able-bodied enough to craft the bricks and twine the rope. Bane oversees the work, using words where his physical strength is corralled. Every once in a while the kids playing nearby run around his legs like leaves caught in a wind kickup, which he chides as gently as an old mother. Anyone else and Blake might've called the position of overseer lazy, but he knows better. The man's wisdom is a fathomless pool. He's knowledgeable about so many things it's probably a smaller list what he _can't_ speak on.

Besides. He has his bad back to tend to.

These changes to the tiny village are well-received. The League was never one to butt their noses into a place unnecessarily, much less neglect what the residents needed. Today, while working alongside Salim and Khalid, Blake couldn't help but bring up the oddity of it all. Of having so _much_ technology at their fingertips, so much potential for growth, yet they were relying on archaic methods of drawing and carrying water. The looks the others had given him could crack ice. Bane was the first to speak.

" _What you view as archaic, others view as history. Gotham is marvelous in some regards, but it is addicted to marvels, and the concept is stretched thin._ "

It'd been a mild admonishment at best -- Blake's reputation as a city slicker is well-known -- but, damn, did he have a tendency to run his mouth.

Bane then assured him that some of his 'favorite technological marvels' still hold true, what with the village's old, decaying pipeline needing repairs. Blake learned more than he thought possible about the art of plumbing and water purification, slouched beside Marat with his hands gray and stiff with clay. Ground-born contaminants and conflicts with the local latrine system were among the biggest threats to an accessible well, right alongside outside tampering. Regular reverse osmosis and filtering would have to be installed, as just one loose bacteria could make the few hundred who lived here sick. _Then_ there was the element of fluoride; a luxury he's so used to in big cities, useful for keeping teeth clean and shiny.

When they return home after half a day of hard work it's Blake's turn to revel in the beauty of the modern world: Bane's received news about his upcoming doctor's appointment.

It's good news and bad news.

The bad news Blake asks to hear first, which Bane obliges easily: some of the nerve damage is permanent. Way, _way_ too complex to fix even with intensive surgery. Some of the strain on surrounding muscle was worsened by stress. Stress from fighting, stress from age. Bane didn't know his age (he had to give _himself_ his own birthday). Even a medical guess wasn't enough, not with the monumental wear-and-tear of his life aging him faster than the average schmuck. He could be in his forties. He could be in his fifties. Sometimes, when Blake looked in his eyes, he seemed a thousand.

Then the good news: some of it _can_ be fixed. Iskakov told him the pain can be significantly reduced with both a surgical spinal correction and a few months of physical therapy, provided he follows up with good lifestyle habits. He'll always have chronic pain, but less of it. He'd _finally_ be able to rely less on pain medication and sleep better. Maybe even go without his back brace once in a while. The same one he wore when walking, driving, to bed.

Blake has to set down his glass of tea, he's so woozy with relief.

"Wow. That's _awesome_." He breathes, rubbing sweat from his forehead. "That's...that's even better than I _hoped_."

He's been used to bad news since he was a kid. A small part of him instinctively waits for the other shoe to drop, well before Bane starts pacing a little. Chipping away at something eloquent, and brutally honest, in his head. He hasn't sat down all the while, despite being in the habit to take every possible moment to conserve strength. The wooden floorboards creak softly as he moves back and forth, back and forth, far softer than they should from someone his size.

"...As I recover, I will not be myself." He slows to a stop, but doesn't look at him, hands folded behind his back and shoulders level. "I also cannot guarantee I will always be...genial. Now, I _will_ ask you to leave when I need my space. There will be no unexpected quarrels. I may also leave, myself, if I am physically capable. Not overlong, but somewhere beyond the hills for a night."

Blake swallows slowly, thumbing at the cold droplets worming their way down his glass. ...He's warning him.

"I guarantee no behavior, positive _or_ negative." Bane stresses, carefully slumping down next to him to shift his back against the wall. He curls his legs, rests elbows on his knees. Stares down the long slope of the hill with hooded eyes, as if he can see it all already. "As much as I wish I could say otherwise."

The ice cubes melt to nothing in the sweltering heat. Blake watches the grassy plains ripple like dog fur in the weak breeze, ignoring his dry throat. Warning him...unlike the last two times, where Bane vanished into thin air and left him wondering if he'd fucking _died_.

It still feels like yesterday. Where he broke down in his apartment bathroom after nearly _three weeks_ of radio silence, when Bane's hideout (the _League's_ ) went up in smoke. It was just before the occupation, right when the media circus was going crazy and the whole city was getting tense after the appearance of toxin in low-income neighborhoods. _Well_ after the League started making a name for themselves. Blake thought he'd been getting the hang of that strange double-life. Then he'd seen the smoking crater on the television, what was left of the southern chunk of the city's sewer systems, and his entire reality had gone into a tailspin.

Bane made it a point not to contact him as he recovered from broken ribs, burns _and_ the loss of several League members. Withdrawing into a distant mountain, just like a lover shouldn't, and transforming from Blake's dream into constant sleepless nights. Shit, _Barsad_ was the one that clued him in the guy was still alive! The memory is a year old (shit, a little over a year), yet it burns hot and fresh. Bane had apologized afterwards, fully acknowledging what he did was neglectful at best, and Blake had forgiven him. It was hard not to...knowing that Talia had disappeared around that time, too.

When Bane left to find Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul, both disappearing right out from under everyone's noses, Blake had _demanded_ he hurry back to him. It was the least he could do after putting him through all that.

" _I don't make promises I can't keep_." He'd never forgotten the cold tangle of Bane's mask pressing against his cheek. " _But I will try_."

He knew he would. Bane was a man who defined himself by trying, harder and smarter than most, and was forever blessed as a figure of inspiration for an entire generation onward. As angry as Blake had been at the time, as hollow as his chest had become, he'd clutched the man and held him to the promise. Trusted him with all he had.

Then came the second time, where Bane disappeared again, fully of his own will.

The second time...Bane sent him letters. A few. Gave him hope that they'd at least keep in touch, keep him in the know. Then he went silent again. For eight long, _long_ months, with six of those months having no idea what to believe except the worst. Anyone else probably would've left after the _first_ fuck-up. Bane himself once stated he wouldn't have blamed him for being too fed up to continue a relationship! Oh, he hated showing weakness, somehow even worse than _he_ was about it, and it was so close to too little too late when Blake reunited with him several countries away. After stitching together a new life in Gotham under a new _identity_.

He was stitched together with so much already. His seams were popping, and he's always too close to spilling.

The memories slither under his skin. Peel their way through his ribcage, make his heart ache like a bum knee. Even when he'd arrived in Kazakhstan on the first cloud of hope he'd rode in a while, it'd been impossible to hold on. Blake closes his eyes, trying to will away the specters of it all, but they cloud the corners of his vision. Phantoms of himself screaming at Bane on the porch beneath twilight, howls of betrayal that couldn't wait for the sun to rise. Panic jumping in his throat when Bane pulled him close and held it all in his arms, _anyway_. The leftover twitches of an incomplete grief that refused to die, even now on this blistering, quiet, hard, easy, late summer day.

Blake shakes it all from his head, utterly fails, then finishes the rest of his tea in one gulp. He couldn't handle a third time. _Whatever_ form it could took.

"...Please speak." Bane's whisper shifts like dry grass. He's still staring ahead, in that farsighted way of his. "Whatever you wish to tell me."

He's witnessed his bedridden periods, but only recently. They generally lasted two or three days. A really sore back he'd need to take the night off to rest on, where Blake would make dinner and grab the wooden tray. A stiff neck would see him cutting his obligations in half so he could wind down with heat therapy and a drink. Even during the _good_ bad days, where they'd cuddle in front of a silent film or do language studies together, Bane would gradually just...shut down. Growing quieter and more distant each and every time, sooner or later. Staring at nothing. Responding in monosyllables. Like shifting into an emotionless golem was the only way he could make it over that final hurdle before the regular routine, and his usual self, made their way back around again.

This wasn't just going to be a few days. This was going to be a few weeks, at the very least. No...no, it was going to be _months_. Blake tries to reason with it, _celebrate_ the fact he's getting some goddamn warning for once. It's not like he can come to terms with such a large amount of off-time in a few minutes, but juggling insane degrees never really stopped him from trying, now did it?

" _It's how I survive._ " Bane said when Blake asked if he'd done something to upset him one day, tense with hurt and already sorry. " _I'm sorry, love. So much of my new life has not yet blended together. These stitches you see will remain for a while yet._ "

The only person he ever had by his side consistently during rough periods like this was...Talia. Someone so close she was like a limb, and destroyed him much the same when she was severed. Then Barsad, to an extent, even through the professional veneer they tried to maintain out of necessity. He could see it early on, all the way back in the storm drains through a black eye and the existential panic that comes with inevitable death. Blake's detective mind goes into overdrive connecting dots, coming to a conclusion that'll hopefully lead him like a lighthouse through the future's murky seas. If it doesn't just set him up for failure and leave him crashing and burning instead, that is.

This...was going to be new territory for them both.

"I will need my space, sometimes...but I do not _ever_ need you to worry. Locations. Dates. Causes." Bane repeats, for his benefit. When Blake looks up again he's turned away from the slope to face him, gray eyes glinting over the careful knit of his fingers between his knees. A dark patch of cloud hinting at rain. "...Never again."

The memories come back, again, and this time crash him against the rocks.

Breakdowns in the St. Swithin's bathroom when guests were over. Hitting his head against the wall and howling at the fucking _unfairness_ of it all where nobody could see. Screaming in the middle of the night and his neighbors hearing him, anyway. Beating his fists bloody to take his mind off the pain, because _anything_ was better than the gap in his chest that ate him alive. Sleeping with men he didn't care much for, hurting good nights and good sex with sudden stupid coldness that made no _sense_. These thoughts blare in the back of his mind, a silent alarm to take him somewhere safe, and Blake knows all these bad memories show up on his stupid, honest face.

" _Never_ again." Bane says, and touches his face far too tenderly.

He doesn't know how the next few weeks or months will go, but he does _know_ one more lapse...could wreck him for good.

"...Well." Blake starts, slowly running a thumb over the cold rim of his glass. "Don't...make promises you can't keep, Behnam."

Bane doesn't break his gaze as he cradles his cheek in one soft, rough hand.

"I promise, Robin."

\--

It's a quiet dinner afterwards. Quiet chores and a quiet chess round. Their little house on the hills feels twice as heavy with all that's happened. All that's _going_ to happen, for weeks or months or even...

"...John?"

Bane's brows twitch in concern when he suddenly stands up from their game, leaning up from his careful hunch. It's another slow match, and any other day it would've been _brilliantly_ tense, but his mind isn't sticking to the pieces. His strategy has turned out sloppy as a result, losing both his bishops and nearly losing his king far earlier than usual. Bane's never commented all the while. Polite or apprehensive, he can't say. Probably both.

"I just...should shower." He resists the urge to fake smile and makes a beeline for the bathroom. "Weather's got me grimy. Save my spot, though?"

Blake doesn't even bother trying to be sneaky about going and prepping himself in the bathroom after a longer-than-usual shower. His chest hasn't unfurled since the physicians delivered the good and bad news. None of him has. His entire body from his toes up feels things were already different, but in a good or bad way was still a horrible unknown, and the limbo is driving him crazy. Nothing his gut or brain could warn him about, besides the obvious, and no amount of bullshit meditation or a crappy prayer (that hasn't sat right on his tongue for years) changes that. He doesn't know. He just doesn't _know_.

He thinks Bane's slogging through the same.

It's something similar, that's for sure, when he comes out way too late, freshly washed and in an old t-shirt and finds the chess board carefully preserved on the kitchen table. The man is leaning on the couch and watching a late-night news program in Uzbekistan. It could be something as large as a local shooting, something as minor as an odd dip in the weather. It was all his way of being connected to Lael and involved in her life when he wasn't able to drop by. The knot in Blake's chest twists like its been pulled as he figures it all out in the dark hallway. The former mercenary's face flickers in the cast light from the television screen, expression still as a mountain.

Blake can't have Bane thinking he won't be able to take care of Lael if the surgery goes wrong. That he won't be able to fight for the League's ideals, for this village, for _him_. Not yet. Not when they both still...don't _know_.

Blake waits for it to go to commercial, (not at all patiently, and to _hell_ with it), then places one hand on the back of his neck, running a soft thumb along the knobbled scar peering out of his shirt. It's the _way_ Bane leans back into his touch that tells him everything he needs to know. When Blake eases around the couch arm and straddles his lap, takes his face in his hands and kisses him desperately, Bane isn't startled, not even when he slides a finger behind him and finds him overly slick and ready. He doesn't ask, or pry, or even encourage. Just takes him as he is. Messy and selfish and needy and all.

They fuck slowly with the news on the lowest volume, Blake's bad hip shivering with the careful rhythm, and the only thing Bane says is his name.

\--

"Large, yeah. No sugar, please. I'm crazy enough."

The barista smiles prettily and hurries up on his order, sensing his urgency. The urge to slap himself is so all-encompassing he has to physically keep his hands on his wallet to keep from doing so. Oh, he shouldn't be grabbing a damn coffee in the first place! He's already _late_ , but the only thing worse than quitting cigarettes was quitting cigarettes _and_ caffeine. Bless his urban soul. Robin tosses a tip into the jar -- even as the barista protests it -- and tries to moderate his walk in Astana's morning bustle. The latte scorches as he gulps it down. A fitting punishment for his addictive behavior.

The whole bus ride he checks his watch, re-reads the same page from his gift, checks his watch again. The surgery should be long since over by now. Bane wasn't exactly a clingy man, but the idea of not being there when he gets out? It puts an extra pep in Robin's step as he arrives on his stop and walks ( _runs_ ) toward the hospital's front doors. He's perfectly fit, but his hip is still crap and it's a chore jogging up the stairs when the elevator takes forever to open. He has to bite his tongue as he waits for the front desk to sign him in, putting on a smile that feels as stiff as an aluminum can. By the time he reaches the fifth floor he's limping like a jackass. More than one medical staff member asks if he's all right.

"Good, good-" He wheezes in his ( _finally_ ) improving Kazakh, flapping a hand in the air when the nurse reaches over to help. "My hip hurts. I'm good."

He wasn't able to be in the operating room -- of _course_ he couldn't, not when it was a delicate enough process as it is -- but that hasn't stopped him from worrying one bit. Barsad and Salim were clearly sick of his worrywarting during scouting, finding multiple excuses to give him space, and he can't blame them. He can't stand _himself_ right now. Peeling apart at the seams as he fumbles his bag under one arm and trembles the door open.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm late, I got caught up-" Robin says as he shuts the door behind him on one foot (stupidly), nearly dropping his bag in an attempt to stay upright. "Ow, shit-"

Even though it's smaller than the average Gotham hospital room and barely furnished, the sharp medicinal tang threatens to sweep in a host of ugly memories. Thankfully he's still panting from the run and adrenaline keeps the hurt _just_ around the corner. Bane's skin is drained from the procedure, more tired than tan right now, but his eyes are as shrewd as ever. It's an odd sight seeing his huge bulk nestled under layers of pristine sheets...and wholly welcome.

"I'm glad you came."

Not even the scars knitting his mouth can hide his slow, soft smile. The day and all its worries blow away like dust in the wind. Blake takes one more second to catch his breath, then stands up straight and pulls out Bane's gift.

"'Course I would." He limps over to sit on the edge of the bed. "Got you something."

It had been an ordeal sitting in on the physical, a rule the on-site doctors broke _only_ by Iskakov's order. Bane had been carved from stone, so similar to his previous incarnation it was a wonder he wasn't identified as Gotham's fearsome revolutionary, mask or no. The man is plain exhausted now, but intensive surgery and painkillers still can't stop his gaze from sharpening at the sight of the thick novel in his hands. Robin surrenders a cheeky grin and makes a mental note to buy him _another_ bookshelf for his next birthday. He then gives himself another reminder. Out there he was Robin, a competent enough fitful _mess_ who was dumb enough to stand on his bad leg.

Here he was Blake...or John.

"You'll have to tell me what you think. _Without_ spoilers." Blake stresses, conveniently overlooking Bane being just as fond of twists and turns as he was. "I haven't started this series yet, I'm still in the middle of her other trilogy."

" _Hm_." The man hums, right on time, and flicks two fingers for the book. "As if I blurt out a byronic hero's heel face turn over dinner, John."

"Hey, I'm just saying in case! If you ever change your mind, this is the _last_ author I'd want you to do so. God, she's good." He leans back and settles on one hand, gets as comfortable as he can. "If a job offered to only pay me in this author's rough drafts instead of money I'd probably consider it."

"Now I know how to hold you hostage and make you do my bidding."

Blake bites his lip and laughs. Bane huffs, hoarse and low, a sound that makes him feel like floating off into the ceiling. Damn. Sometimes...it amazed him how a bad career choice led to a bad day led to meeting a man who'd change his life forever. Fate was such a mischievous fucker. Soon they both trickle off to silence, the sound of nurses just outside the door and the ticking plastic clock by the door filling the gap.

"...How was it?" Blake asks, before his brain can tell his gut to shut up.

"Well, I was knocked out, for starters." Bane muses, reaching a slow hand to scratch loosely at his cheek. The uneven corner of his mouth twitches when Blake rolls his eyes. "They treated me well, John, though I am of the distinct impression I unnerved the head surgeon. They could never quite look me in the eye."

"Ha. If only they knew what a softie you are on the inside."

Bane snorts, but it's as soft as the rest of him right now, and Blake's heart swells helpless and hot when he reaches for his hand.

"...And now?" He asks, squeezing his fingers. Addicted to this good news and stretching it for all it's worth. Bane's grey eyes flicker up to the ceiling.

"As of now...I am tired...but not ready to rest."

He suddenly hisses a sharp sigh through his nose and looks somewhere else in the room. Already frustrated with what he's about to say and trying to find a way out. Knowing him, it either meant he was going to confess to something he was ashamed of or ask for a favor. Maybe both. Blake leans forward eagerly and waits, knitting their fingers as tight as he can.

"Talk to me."

Bane twists his jaw a little. For as stoic as he could be, his eyes tell a thousand stories. Just like that, he goes from frustration to yearning to surrender.

"Could you...read the novel aloud?" Blake blinks. He has to hurriedly steel his face so Bane doesn't catch his surprise when he looks his way again. "Just a chapter or two. Even drugged now my mind wanders from me. It needs to stay within the hospital if I'm to recover properly."

A permanent poet. Blake grins.

"Sure thing, big guy. Strap in."

It's a good time, especially when he tries to mimic Bane's accent during a dramatic line and gets a sharp flick to the rib for it. By the time he's finished the third chapter Bane's fast asleep. Head tilted to one side and one hand folded over his broad chest, the other still knitted in Blake's fingers. The man's never been a deep sleeper, or a fast one, and the thought that this could become yet _another_ norm nearly stuns him stiff. So Blake takes great care detangling their hands and shifting off the mattress to sit on the chair by the bed. Cracking open the window for good measure so he can breathe in something other than his own abject horror.

Tears prick his eyes as he breathes in the hot, arid air, an itchy menace ready to take the next hour from him.

Marat once told him trying to forget about people just makes things worse, so he doesn't let himself brush away the memories of Reilly. Even though the last time he saw him was laying in a hospital bed sick and tired and hurting. All from something that could've been prevented, if he'd been just a little faster. Withering away, just like...

"Everything okay in here?"

Robin jerks upright. It's one of the nurses assigned to watch over Bane. He only takes a second to respond now, faster than he did a few months ago, and smiles through the hazy vision. If she suspects anything odd, she has the grace not to comment. She quietly checks Bane's IV, takes a few notes and walks back out again. Blake slackens against the windowsill again, and breathes.

The next few months waits outside of Astana. Well into the dry, rolling steppe where a tiny village grows in careful, tender steps. The next few months of building wells and repairing fences and tending to a man who _loathed_ powerlessness, to the point he put off essential surgery and therapy in favor of a mask. All so could continue tearing through the world's injustices like the incarnation of wrath itself. A few months of doubt that Blake pushed too _hard_. Made a bad situation worse. That he didn't push hard enough, _soon_ enough, and it was all for naught.

He's not patient...but he _has_ to wait.

The adrenaline's gone. So's the caffeine. With no cigarettes to lean on and the novel too much work Blake hunches on his knees and holds his hair. He listens to the ticking clock by the door and hoarse cadence of Bane's breath, hoping the sweet air outside will somehow fill his lungs instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, _this_ took a while, huh?
> 
> What was originally meant to be two chapters is actually going to be split into three. This slice-of-life series is meant to be both episodic _and_ linear, but I felt this particular introduction should go on a little longer.


End file.
